


(i could never be myself) without you

by fated_addiction



Category: Mamamoo
Genre: F/F, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-15 21:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8072920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fated_addiction/pseuds/fated_addiction
Summary: It sneaks up on her. This time.

Moonbyul, psychics, and airport tacos. Honestly, she doesn't need to say anything else.





	

-

 

 

 

It sneaks up on her. This time.

 

 

 

 

 

Hyejin, terrible as the youngest, is the one that drags her out into the city at night. 

New York is their company’s idea. For authenticity, their CEO adds, and then it’s done: flight booked, managers packed, four days of studio time and a song under wraps for the fall. It’s a lot, but it’s usually a lot, and each of them deals with the pressure in their own way; for Moonbyul, it kind of overwhelms her silently, pulling at her as she settles and then resettles in her position on a chair in the corner of Yongsun and Wheein’s room.

“You should go with her,” Yongsun says from the bed, essentially waving them off as Hyejin shoves a jacket into her lap. “Make sure she doesn’t get arrested –” Her gaze turns stern as she waves a finger at Hyejin anyway. “Seriously,” she says. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“Let’s get drunk!” Hyejin still declares and to be fair, Wheein is wrestling with food poisoning, Yongsun needs to rest her voice, which leaves the two of them to go figure out their downtime. She pushes Moonbyul off her chair. “And have pizza.”

Wheein moans from her bed. “No food talk!”

It’s chaotic anyway, of course, as Hyejin grabs her hand. They say goodbye to the other girls; it’s an easy lie to their managers – yes, of course, oppa we will _totally_ be back in our room by one and sure, we will _absolutely_ let you know when we grab a taxi. It’s always expected that Hyejin is going to get into some kind of trouble (it’s really Wheein) and it’s _always_ expected that Moonbyul is going to be the one that starts some kind of bar fight (maybe, sure, but that’s really going to be Yongsun if the four of them are honest) but whatever, she thinks. It is what it is.

They grab a cab outside the hotel room and Moonbyul sags into her seat, half-groaning when Hyejin stumbles over directions that she reads from her phone.

“Do you even know where we’re going?” Moonbyul mumbles, eyes closed.

“No.” Hyejin sighs and settles. “But if I stayed in that room one more minute, watching one more damn romantic comedy – all while Yongsun eonni sighs and checks her phone and thinks about _Eric-ssi_ , I might murder someone.”

Moonbyul laughs. “I was comfortable.”

The other girl snorts. “You were worrying over Wheein, eonni. I’m not dumb.”

A warm flush unsettles Moonbyul’s stomach. She fumbles for her phone in her jacket. Hyejin scoffs next to her.

“You’re going to text her,” she says dryly.

“I would text you if you were sick too.” Moonbyul rolls her eyes. “Airport tacos are always a bad idea,” she retorts, “and you are the only one with a stomach of steel.”

Hyejin shrugs. “Good genetics.”

Moonbyul manages to text Wheein anyway. Something like – _let me know if you need anything_. And it’s not like she wouldn’t do it for any of the others, she tells herself. She doesn’t expect a response. She shoves her phone back into pocket and drops her head back against the seat, her eyes closing as the taxi drifts into traffic.

It’s weird, she thinks. She gets way too introspective when they go away. She thinks. She wonders. She worries. It happens when you’re the oldest, Yongsun always says. They’ve always been different than other groups; they’re closer, they’re codependent – emotionally, more so than with work. It’s a pact that they made before they debut: they would always allow each other to explore different avenues, never begrudging each other opportunities, but always managing to circle back to each other in the end. And maybe it’s been especially prevalent with all the groups breaking up and losing members this summer – Yongsun may be the leader, but it’s Moonbyul that always thinks about these things, ten steps ahead and always wondering.

Then, of course, there’s Wheein.

“Are we there yet,” she murmurs finally, and their driver turns on the radio, an undertone of pop music muttering in the air. Hyejin only laughs and Moonbyul opens one eye, peeking at the other girl, only to watch her text and pay no attention to her question.

Moonbyul’s phone shudders at her hip. She pulls it out of her pocket.

It’s Wheein. _Don’t have too much fun_ is all she says and Moonbyul laughs, just a little, the corners of her mouth pressed into her cheeks.

“Like I said –” Hyejin’s voice breaks through. She’s leaning in, over Moonbyul’s arm and peeking at her text messages. “You guys are _gross_.”

Moonbyul hits her arm. 

She’s about to retort though and the taxi pulls to a stop, but not in front of a bar. It’s a neighborhood and Moonbyul blinks, wishing she had paid more attention. The streetlights are damp, hazy even as Hyejin pays for their cab and opens the door, the car light flooding her vision into awareness. She doesn’t know what else to do other than get out of the cab, greeting the neighborhood with some kind of curiosity. It’s not as busy as the area near their hotel or the studio, even, but it’s normal enough: small, paved sidewalks, some with stones, and large, elaborate railings – the kind you see in photos and pictures of New York City. It’s weirdly disorienting and Moonbyul is almost grateful that they’re not at a bar.

“Where are we?” she asks, confused. The taxi drives away and Hyejin loops her arm through hers, checking her phone quickly.

“We’re going to see a psychic.” Hyejin’s grin is wide and uncomfortable. She looks like she’s trying to stifle a laugh. “Hyuna recommended her to me and you know you would be the only one to go with me as it is. So here we are.”

Moonbyul feels herself lose her mind. Slowly, if anything, but that’s the only she manages to be aware of. Hyejin drags her to the second apartment, a tight grip over her arm, as they walk up the stairs and ring the bell for the right number.

It’s her gut that starts to grate at the idea. Whatever this is – usually Hyejin is really open about the things she wants to do or ropes the others into doing. Moonbyul doesn’t like this. Her mouth folds into her frown and her stomach starts to buzz into knots.

Hyejin grins, watching her expression. “Don’t worry – we’ll drink later,” she says.

 

 

 

 

 

There is no right way to say this.

What you should know is that Moonbyul is the one (and probably the only one, if you ask her) that understands the gravity of her feelings. It was never logical: they met and they grew on each other, of course, but there were things that offset it for Moonbyul. Life was brighter, sharper, and entirely too painful around Wheein. A laugh was no longer a laugh. Sad moments were almost desperate. Things happened and they were loud, shattering, and aggressively intense for her. 

She can remember the first time she held Wheein’s hand, not the first time she heard her thing. She can tell you things, write you actual lines about how her fingers fit into her hand, the way they sort of laid into the back of her, what _palm to palm_ really meant to her. It’s as easy as breathing, even now, now that it’s been years.

Then, at some point, Moonbyul knew that she was in love. She never asked for response. Never knew how, beyond existing and understanding that this was it, this was the truth – she was, is, and always will be in love with her.

This is the terrifying part.

 

 

 

 

 

“A psychic,” Moonbyul says, dumbly, for about the third or fourth time – the older woman in front of her smiles, laughs too, and it’s not really the most difficult thing to wrap her head around, but Moonbyul is struggling because none of this makes sense to her.

So she tries again, pouting and glaring at Hyejin. “You took me to a _psychic_ ,” she says.

Hyejin shrugs. “You didn’t seem that excited about alcohol,” she replies, “so I changed up our plans. You’ll be fine, eonni. I promise.”

“You tricked her,” the old woman says to Hyejin, who merely shrugs again and laughs. “She’s lucky you have a playful spirit,” she adds too, dryly.

Moonbyul snorts.

The apartment is beautiful. There are no crystal balls, no tarot cards in sight, and no weird paintings or any indication that the woman – who could be their mother, Moonbyul thinks – is a psychic or anything of that degree. Instead, it’s high ceilings and bright, bold landscape paintings, pictures of what she assumes to be grandchildren, and the smell of roses and lavender. There is a television on in the other room and there is a tray of tea sitting on the coffee table between the three of them, as Hyejin sits down. It feels like her grandmother’s house, suspicious but warm, embracing and strangely open.

She doesn’t feeling uneasy, Moonbyul thinks. She feels cautious and she sort of hates that, eyeing Hyejin and then the old woman, sinking in the chair next to Hyejin. She keeps her coat on.

The old woman turns to her. “May I see your hand?”

“I guess so,” Moonbyul mutters, her fingers flexing. She eyes the older woman as she shifts forward. Hesitating, she offers her hand. “Sorry,” she says, swallowing. “My hands are cold…”

“It’s natural to be nervous,” the woman says, smiling. The wrinkles in her eyes press forward and her face warms, softening Moonbyul’s nerves. “I’m getting older,” she teases, “so I get hot easily anyway – cool things are nice.”

Moonbyul laughs a little. She doesn’t relax; her nerves are starting to unravel, weirdly pulling at her belly and shoving into her throat. All she is doing is holding your hand, she tells herself. She tries to focus: you have a recording session tomorrow, she tells herself, and call Wheein on the way back – she might need something.

“Tell me a color,” the psychic requests.

“Red,” she repeats. “Or orange? I have no idea.”

Hyejin snorts and the woman laughs too.

“I guess red,” Moonbyul circles back and then rambles, “or variations of red – which, well, for argument’s sake is orange –”

“She’s talking about Wheein,” Hyejin interjects and Moonbyul kicks her leg, glaring.

“Of course she is,” the old woman says and Moonbyul blinks, uneasy. “There is are a lot of reds and oranges,” she continues too, “that I see – it’s very warm, very pretty, very much a lively, loving range… do you think of these colors a lot?”

Moonbyul shrugs, skeptic again. “I guess?”

The woman grows quiet. Moonbyul tries to calm her brain. Don’t think about Wheein, she tells herself. Or do – the logic in her brain tries to reason with her, but sensibility has long left and she feels too much like she’s trying to fight this without knowing why.

“I don’t _want_ to be here,” she blurts, and the woman looks up, surprised. Moonbyul feels her face heat up, but tries to stay calm. “I mean,” she corrects and shuffles her feet forward. “I’m sure you’re wonderful at what you do and can see into the future where I’m old, most likely cranky, and living on an island somewhere… hopefully.” Hyejin chokes next to her, but Moonbyul still gropes at her sanity and hates that she’s lost her cool somewhere in here. “I will definitely pay you for your time, of course –”

“No need,” the woman interrupts.

It takes a moment but Moonbyul realizes that she’s standing awkwardly, smiling like she’s been shoved into a haunted house and just coming to understand this.

The psychic stands with her. Her smile is warm. She seems charmed.

“You should tell her,” she says and all Moonbyul thinks is _did hyejin pay you _. The old woman laughs. “And the kid didn’t pay me, of course. Consider this a free consultation – I love these stories, after all.” The woman waves her hand, reaching forward and squeezing Moonbyul’s hand. “You should tell her,” she says gently, and her thumb rubs lightly against the back of her hand, as if to make some kind of point. “You should tell her because it needs to be said – these things are never supposed to be held back. It won’t be perfect. There are times where the two of you will be crueler to each other than what you need to be. But you really should tell her.”__

__It’s not the worst that get to Moonbyul. Her vision sort of changes, shakes, and there is a burst of color that streaks over her eyes – red, maybe, pinks and oranges, sure, but it feels enough like a flush, warming her face and her hands and her belly with no warning. She stares at the woman, exposed and confused, not knowing how to reply or to be polite enough to laugh it off and drag Hyejin out for that drink that they were supposed to be having._ _

__“Come visit me again,” the psychic says, releasing her hand, and turns to Hyejin, saying something about _hyuna_ too, which makes Hyejin laugh too. It’s strange and disorienting and she sort of stands there, half-drowning in an out of body experience that she doesn’t really know how to handle – not that there is anything else to handle._ _

__Moonbyul feels her ears start to ring. Hyejin takes her hand and they are leaving, all of the sudden. It’s one foot in front of the other, she tells herself, and then finally they are outside the apartment, walking towards a main street for another cab. Her awareness starts to change too: it’s a lot cool outside, but her jacket is heavy over her shoulders, the cuffs scratching at her wrists, and Hyejin’s chatter is reaching her ears, but there is nothing she can say._ _

___Tell her_ , she thinks. The roof of her mouth is dry._ _

__“I think I need to drink,” Moonbyul says._ _

__

__

__

__

__

__They have beer. It’s not as aggressive._ _

__Hyejin disappears to the bathroom, fakes a call from _hyuna_ when it’s really from _umji_ and it’s weird and cute and a million other things that Moonbyul cannot wrap her head around. She is too bewildered to kill the younger girl anyway; it’s like everything has bubbled over the surface and decided to stay. There is a text from Wheein on her phone too, something about stomach medicine and bottled water – _but flavored_ , the text says, _and raspberry with bubbles_. Usually, she’d respond with a laugh and a phone call or anything in between, but her head is swimming with stupid possibilities and a laundry list of games that simply involve _should i_._ _

__She is halfway through her third beer when she decides._ _

__This is not going to be a confession._ _

__It _can’t_ be._ _

__

__

__

__

__

__Yongsun meets them outside her room._ _

__“We’re switching rooms,” she declares, phone and key in hand, her sweatshirt hood pulled over her head as she shoves the key into Moonbyul’s pocket. She grips her phone like a lifeline. It’s almost cute. “It’s time I torture Hyejinie with movies anyway – I’m starting to feel a little guilty towards Wheein-ah.”_ _

__Hyejin barely has enough time to react as Yongsun pushes her towards her new room, leaving Moonbyul in the hallway with the room key, the smell of alcohol, her drugstore bag, and all her stupid feelings. She stares at the door, almost wide-eyed, mostly with desperation; she doesn’t know if she’s ready for this or if she’s just panicking, panicking because these things tend to surface here and there and she never really understands how to deal with it._ _

__So she doesn’t think: she pushes herself to the door, stumbles with the key, and enters the room without any resounding warning. There is a light on near the bed and the room is sort of hazy, the television guiding into the background. Wheein is nowhere to be found and Moonbyul turns, sort of panicking again, sighing when she sees light coming out of the cracks of the bathroom door. She shrugs out of her jacket, tossing it onto the empty bed. The sheets are thrown back, the only sign that Yongsun was in the room and she looks towards the bed that Wheein has been occupying for most of the night._ _

__Sighing, she unpacks her drugstore bag. She puts the water and medicine on the night table. Lowers the intensity of the light and smells her shirt with a frown. She moves to the drawer by the television, changing the channel to the news and then digging through Wheein’s clothes to steal some pajamas. It’s really just a mess of t-shirts and shorts, all of which she grabs – the shorts fit, but the shirt is almost cuffed, cropped over her stomach. It seems a little silly, but she sort of goes with it, kicking off her socks too and heading to the bathroom._ _

__She knocks first. “Are you alive?”_ _

__There’s a groan on the other end. Moonbyul laughs a little and opens the door, softening when she sees Wheein curled against the bathtub, head dropped back and her arms covered her stomach. Her eyes are closed tightly._ _

__“I _hate_ tacos,” comes the soft greeting._ _

__Moonbyul’s mouth curls and she shifts, moving to sit by Wheein. She curls her legs underneath her, but doesn’t reach out to touch Wheein yet._ _

__“Well,” she answers, rubbing her eyes. She yawns. “I smell like a bar and saw a psychic?”_ _

__Wheein’s eyes open. Her mouth twitches and she studies her. “You’re wearing my clothes too.”_ _

__“You smell good and not like a bar,” Moonbyul shrugs as if it explains everything, twisting her neck a little. She pulls her hair back into a messy ponytail. “I got you water,” she adds. “And medicine.” Then it sort of happens, light and warm, simple if anything else. “The psychic also told me that – well, without really saying the words… there was a lot about colors?” Moonbyul blinks and continues, “But she told me I am in love with you and that I should probably tell you.”_ _

__Moonbyul is not romantic, but she’s honest and if she ever admits to imagining this moment (she’s thought about it), this wouldn’t be the way. But there’s something so inherently them, strangely so, and maybe she’s riding the waves of whatever mess Hyejin dragged her into earlier, but she meets Wheein’s gaze head on, serious and soft._ _

__“So I’m telling you,” she manages. “That.”_ _

__Wheein lets out something that sounds like a laugh. “Right now, of course.” Her expression is unreadable. Then she laughs again. “Of course,” she says again, “it would be right now.”_ _

__“Sure.” Moonbyul shrugs. “The psychic grandma told me I should.” Her mouth thins. “Tell you that,” she manages._ _

__“We should send her flowers,” Wheein replies and then turns, dropping her head back against Moonbyul’s thigh._ _

__Her hair fans out over her skin and it’s a surreal contrast, hair to skin, soft and gold, this weird glow that seems to warm everything around them. Moonbyul’s hand drops into the strands, her fingers twisting into the crown of her head. She draws her thumb over her forehead, watching as Wheein’s eyes drift close, her lashes kissing her cheeks._ _

__For a moment, they sit like this. It seems irrelevant to say anything: for people who sing, write songs, and everything in between, they are sort of stuck on themselves, heavy handed even. It seems cheesy to say things like _soul mates_ and _love you_ and pinpoint moments and things and little, tiny things that she absolutely remembers Wheein doing but doesn’t really know how to say – because say it, really say it, makes it more than just real and new, it makes it just as simple as breathing. It’s just terrifying._ _

__“I love you too,” Wheein says after awhile, and her eyes don’t open. Instead, she reaches for Moonbyul’s hand and drags it over her stomach, their fingers curling together over a mix of fabric and flushed skin. “And this is kind of anti-climatic – I’m about to vomit, at any moment… because I ate tacos at the airport – but I don’t need psychics or an Internet test –”_ _

__“Internet test?” Moonbyul interrupts._ _

__Wheein’s eyes open. They’re bold and brilliant. The corners of her mouth turn slightly and she reaches up, poking her in the nose._ _

__“Shut up,” she says. “You may be slow on the uptake, but it’s been there for me for way too long. And anyway, the Internet is a wise and terrifying place.” She grins a little. “Honestly, Byulyi-ah, I knew I was going to wait for you to catch up.”_ _

__Moonbyul feels her face burn. She flicks at Wheein’s forehead. “Who says you were first?” she says quietly, near an admission. It feels new and like something she isn’t supposed to give quite yet. Her tongue pushes against the roof of her mouth. “I can definitely tell you that you weren’t.” Her voice lightens and she feels a little shy. Then this happens too: “I have evidence,” she says._ _

__Wheein doesn’t miss a beat. “Not when I’m ready to puke though.”_ _

__There’s a challenge in her voice and Moonbyul can only laugh, leaning over her and brushing her mouth against her forehead. Her mouth lingers a little – she can’t help it, honestly – and there’s a sharp, heavy feeling that presses against her stomach. They feel like nerves. Or knives. She can’t even begin to decide._ _

__“I’ll kiss you later,” she says, maybe means it, her fingers stroking back Wheein’s hair as they both sort of resettle on the bathroom floor._ _

__This isn’t even a whimper._ _

__It’s just not a bang._ _

__

__

__

__

__

__Her alarm does not go off when Moonbyul opens her eyes._ _

__There isn’t even a wake up call; the television is still on though and the weatherwoman is on the screen, blurry while smile as she says, “today there’s going to be sunny skies!” like it’s the answer to every question that’s racing back into her head. It still takes Moonbyul a minute to realize that she’s in bed and Wheein’s legs are knotted through her own._ _

__This is normal, but it feels different. Moonbyul wakes up to the thought of bones and limbs, how endlessly connected they seem while pushing knots deeper into the pit of her stomach. Her shoulder aches. Her t-shirt is riding up, stretched against her breasts and the blanket is hanging off the corner in the floor. She thinks to herself: _i love you_ and hears back, in her head, _i love you too byulyi-ah_ , the resounding echo, a reality that she remembers she has._ _

__She sees Wheein then, right in front of her, her eyes open, wide, and awake. Slowly, she starts to smile; the corners of her mouth are imprinted as creases, a warm smile that Moonbyul doesn’t understand how to deserve. It’s unsettling and wonderful and incredibly real, harder to wrap her head around even as Wheein leans forward and presses her mouth against hers._ _

__“Say it again,” she murmurs and Moonbyul’s mouth trembles, actually trembles, as they half-kiss, half-sigh, all together and in a row._ _

__“Don’t puke,” Moonbyul warns, teases, and loses it, maybe, because she doesn’t really understand what this taste really is. It’s like everything is sweet and present, a strange reality – Wheein’s lips are dry, warm, and it aches when she tilts her head back and suddenly, her tongue is in her mouth and all she can do is taste her._ _

__This is a kiss and then it’s just breathing, together, alone, then together again; Wheein’s head tilts into her, her body presses into hers, and Moonbyul’s fingers start to wake up and grab at her t-shirt, sneaking underneath it and stretching against her skin. She doesn’t know how long they kiss, or wake up, or if her brain really understands what’s happening._ _

__It just is. So she says it again: “I love you.”_ _

__Wheein’s smile stretches her back into being awake. It feels like this._ _


End file.
